


Anatomy for the Artist

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artists, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 02:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19347478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: Sherlock works as a nude model for art classes, and one day one of the teachers asks him for private sessions. Whatever could happen next?





	Anatomy for the Artist

When Sherlock showed up to his first private appointment with John, he was nervous. He’d accepted it in the spur of the moment, mesmerized by the sketches John had lain out for him after a class. Sketches John had made of a nude Sherlock during class, when John was supposed to be teaching. Sketches that were far and away more accomplished than any of his students’. Scant swipes of pastels that clearly showed Sherlock stretching between poses. Detailed drawings of his hands and hair, which his students either avoided or butchered. He’d never seen John use any of these as teaching instruments, examples of what’s right, so John made them for himself. He found it important to draw the curl that tucked into the shell of Sherlock’s ear just for the sake of it, and that made Sherlock feel weak in the knees, and he was never weak in the knees.

He’d refused the invitation earlier, before the sketches, as a matter of principal. He never accepted private sessions, though they promised to pay much better than art schools. He wasn’t interested in being someone’s “muse.” And he certainly wasn’t interested in the ulterior motives that often came with such invitations. But he wasn’t able to dismiss John’s offer in his mind after his initial refusal. He kept turning it over in his mind, finding the thought of it odd and then intriguing, appealing and then tempting. Finding himself tracking John’s gaze around the room the next week. Feeling hot even though his body was covered in goosebumps. And then blurting out a yes when John showed him what he was capable of doing with Sherlock’s body.

So here he was at John’s door, coat collar pulled up against the wind, finger poised millimetres from John’s buzzer. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t want this private time with John. He shouldn’t spend his time picturing John’s hands on him, dreaming about John sculpting him out of clay. God, he had sexy hands.

Sherlock shook himself and pressed the buzzer like he had a vendetta against. For God’s sake, he was a professional. He was above this. Sex and romance held no interest, and even if they did, they would only get in the way of his work. He was modeling for John, and that was that.

John opened the door and smiled, a tight, polite thing, but his eyes lit up, and Sherlock found himself mirroring it.

“Hi, Sherlock. Thank you for coming.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”

“Come on in.”

John stepped aside, back to the wall, as Sherlock entered the narrow stairway with barely enough space at the base to open the door. Sherlock stepped up to the first stair, just out of the way of the door and just short of John on the second step. It put them eye to eye, cramped in the tight hall, and they stood suspended for a moment before John pushed through his shoulder, and the door closed behind Sherlock.

“It’s just up here.” John trotted up the stairs, and Sherlock chided himself for enjoying their moment. For entertaining it. For being disappointed that it was over. He didn’t want moments. This was work, not an excuse to give into some stupid biological impulse.

The door at the top of the stairs was open, revealing the room in slices as he ascended. He saw a high ceiling, unfinished, bare wood and ducts and uncovered Edison bulbs. He saw a tall set of utility shelves stacked with small plastic drawers, organized but covered in pigmented fingerprints. He saw canvases stacked, leaning against the wall. He saw an easel, a row of assorted chairs, and a rumpled sofa.

“Can I take your coat?”

Sherlock shrugged his coat off his shoulders, fixated on the sofa. Not just rumpled. Freshly rumpled. Regularly rumpled.

Sherlock held out the coat for John to take. “You live here.”

John took the coat and draped it over his arm. “Not really.”

 _Not really_. Quite the non-answer, but John wasn’t offering any more information. He just turned and hung Sherlock’s coat on a coat tree near the door.

Sherlock walked to the sofa, resisting the urge to sit, to touch the place where John slept. He unbuttoned his cuffs for the sake of having something else to do with his hands.

 _Not really_. Perhaps he said that because it was recent, temporary. The wear on the sofa didn’t indicate heavy use though it went out of style a decade ago, but given John’s taste, he’d estimate that John bought the sofa five to seven years ago. What could put him suddenly in his studio?

“Love on the rocks?” Sherlock spun to face John.

John winced. “Sorry?”

Well, that certainly chilled things. Good. “Your girlfriend threw you out.”

John stared.

“Well? Am I right?”

John grabbed a sketch book from the drawer of a filing cabinet and let it close a little too hard. “Close enough.” He gestured to the row of chairs. “Shall we?”

Sherlock was taken aback, but he nodded. “Yes.”

“Wonderful.” John went to the row of chairs and plucked a short director’s chair from it. “Whatever chair makes you most comfortable.”

John took the chair across the room, parallel to the window with the row of chairs, and Sherlock approached them, wary. He chose a Victorian chair, high-backed with tufted velvet cushions. Squat. The kind of chair that would put his knees up to his chest if he were to sit standardly but were wonderful for stretching his legs out. He pulled the chair out and set it diagonal to the window before pulling his shirttails from his trousers.

“What are you doing?”

Was John actually stopping him? “You hired a nude model.”

“Just because you’re naked in my class doesn’t mean I want you naked here.”

That made no sense. “Then why am I here?”

John sighed. “Just sit in the chair, Sherlock.”

Before sitting, Sherlock tucked in his shirt and buttoned his cuffs. “Do you have any poses in mind?”

“Just sit comfortably. I’ll let you know if anything strikes me.”

Sherlock sat, legs stretched out, hands folded across his stomach, and stared at the limited view through the window. All was silent for a bit except for the scratch of implement on paper. He wasn’t sure what John was using. (Pencil or charcoal? The sound was too scratchy to be paints or pastels.) But he didn’t want to look.

Eventually, Sherlock heard a rip and saw from the corner of his eye a paper flutter to the ground.

John said, “It’s impossible to get good light in London.”

Sherlock pictured the two of them in the countryside, warmed by the summer sun. “Hm?”

“I had really hoped it’d be sunny today. Bloody pipe dream.”

“Hm,” Sherlock agreed. “My family has a cottage in Dorset.”

John paused. Looked at Sherlock. Sherlock could feel the eyes on his face, making him flush.

“The light there is beautiful.”

The scratch came back. John hummed. “I’ve never been.”

 _I’ll take y— Damn it!_ “It’s nice if you like it quiet.”

“Do you like it quiet?”

“God, no.”

John chuckled softly.

They were silent for a bit longer, but this one felt less tense, more familiar, almost calming.

“So what do you do besides modeling for art classes?” John asked.

“What makes you think I have another vocation?” Sherlock raised a brow.

John smiled, let out a quick hm. “Maybe I was asking about hobbies.”

Sherlock considered it for a moment, watching John concentrate just a bit too hard on the paper in his lap. “No you weren’t.”

John shrugged, looked straight into Sherlock’s eyes. “So what do you do?”

Sherlock looked out the window, scooted his arse back on the chair, and wriggled his shoulders into the cushion. “I solve crimes.”

“Oh, a detective?” John went back to the sketch, satisfied with the answer.

“That would be the crude way to put it.”

That got John’s attention back. “Oh?”

“I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world.” Sherlock’s gaze darted to John and back to the window. “Scotland Yard calls me when they’re stuck.”

“Hm, a proper genius, then?” John was back to his book.

“I knew your girlfriend left you from the state of your sofa.”

John tutted just once, still drawing. “Not quite.”

“Oh, really. Enlighten me, doctor.” Sherlock spread his hands in sarcastic offering.

John rested his elbows on the book, a smirk on his face. “It was my boyfriend.”

Sherlock’s face went hot. He was glad he was clothed, otherwise John wouldn’t just see his face flush. He felt his blood had left all his organs to rush to his skin. 

“Hold that for a minute, will you?”

Sherlock froze with his hands spread and body hot. John was gay. It was certain. Until that moment, Sherlock could console himself that no matter his feelings, he was in no danger of unnecessary entanglements, that the balance of probability was that John was straight. The knowledge that he wasn’t made this treacherous indeed. He wanted to flee. He wanted to strip himself bare and offer himself to John as more than just an aesthetic inspiration.

“What was it about the state of my sofa?”

Sherlock jumped at the sound of John’s voice, his entire body going tense before he could relax back into the pose. But even the rote monologue of explaining a deduction took on an aura he didn’t expect. His lips and tongue and teeth felt like they were making promises to John’s body.

“That’s amazing,” John said, his face lighting up, and Sherlock was sure he would faint. His body was so intent on flushing that it had now deprived his brain of oxygen. 

He blinked for a few… seconds. “That’s not what people usually say.”

John nodded, too intent on his drawing to process what Sherlock said at a reasonable rate. But finally, he looked up from his book, a quirk in his smile. “What do people usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John burst into laughter, and Sherlock did his best not to follow him.

***

Sherlock stayed clothed for the second and third sessions, and John barely touched him. He even kept his pose adjustments to verbal instructions unless they were particularly complicated, and Sherlock had to stop himself several times from purposefully misunderstanding just to get John to touch him. He may have given into temptation a time or two, suppressing a smile or a shiver as John nudged his elbow, his shoulder, his chin.

The only time he could trust John to touch him was to shake his hands as they parted ways. Sherlock found it difficult not to touch his fingers to the inside of John’s wrist, see if the touch made John’s pulse flutter the way it did Sherlock’s, but he managed to avoid temptation in this way at least.

The sun shone at the fourth one. John had him three-quarters to the window, the sun warm on his face, the sounds of sketching lulling him, and when John commented on how beautiful Sherlock’s skin was in the sunlight, Sherlock prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that John would ask him to undress. The fictitious god didn’t answer, and Sherlock cursed his non-existence.

As Sherlock was getting ready to leave the same session, John asked if Sherlock sunburned easily, and when Sherlock asked why, John tapped the back of a knuckle on Sherlock’s cheek. John said something after that, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, shaking his head, but Sherlock couldn’t hear it. He could only flee for fear of mortifying himself.

***

Sherlock’s hand shook as he knocked to be let into their fifth session. John had asked Sherlock at the end of his most recent class at the University if he would be comfortable posing nude this time. Of course, Sherlock had answered in the affirmative. He was a professional after all, and the work John had shown him thus far had left him with a feeling he couldn’t quite explain. He wasn’t interested in being a muse. He didn’t want to be an idealized fantasy. He didn’t want to be worshiped while the work was good and tossed aside when the inspiration faded.

But it was different with John. Somehow John’s art depicted the total of him—though each piece tended to focus on one feature—instead of just the aesthetic of him. Perhaps that was why he felt so nervous to be nude in front of John. John saw Sherlock for himself, not a collection of body parts, not a tool for learning like he was in a classroom, not an object of desire like he might be for other artists. The gaze was bearable in the classroom. John’s focus was split; Sherlock’s focus was split, but today it would be just them, with nothing to concentrate on besides each other. 

Sherlock flushed at the thought, and he scolded his face to return to normal color before John opened the door.

It was not to be, and Sherlock could still feel the tinge of pink in his cheeks as John was revealed to him, standing on the first step, putting Sherlock’s gaze straight on John’s neck, where he’d expected John’s eyes to be.

Sherlock nearly fled.

John usually wore a cardigan or jumper, giving him a look of cozy comfortability, leaving the danger under the surface only visible to Sherlock. But today, it was on display. He wore only a white t-shirt on his torso, spattered and stain, hugging the curves of his biceps and trapezius muscles, baring the boundary between the skin protected from the desert sun and that permanently stained by it.

“Jumper,” Sherlock blurted.

John’s eyelids narrowed, a little smile at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry?”

“You usually wear a jumper,” Sherlock said as if that were some sort of explanation.

John’s tongue tugged at his lower lip for just a moment. “I turned up the heat in the studio.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but duck his head. John wanted him to be comfortable.

“Ready?” John climbed to the second stair and stepped aside.

 _No._ Sherlock nodded and climbed to the first floor with John close behind.

He’d barely crested the top stair before he was pulling his coat from his shoulders, letting John grab the lapels as he slipped free his forearms, and removing the cufflinks from his sleeves. He set them on the end table by the still-rumpled sofa. _It’s difficult to find a place in London. I have a spare bedroom._

He sat on the sofa to loosen his shoelaces.

John watched him, elbow propped on his opposite arm, for a moment before he seemed to realize what he was doing and diverted himself to the kitchen. Well, not really a kitchen. A refrigerator, hotplate, and kettle.

He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a beer. “Would you like something to drink?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do you really think me so delicate to need social lubricant to be nude with you?”

“I was only…” John’s face blazed red. “Never mind.” He shut the fridge, popped the cap with a ring on his middle finger, tossed the cap aside as he took a deep gulp from the beer, the hairs on his neck looking pleasantly prickly. He tucked the beer under his arm as he gathered a canvas and paints, set it down on a table once the canvas was settled onto an easel.

Sherlock stood to remove his trousers and pants as John squeezed a selection of paints onto a palette. Without the jumper in the way, Sherlock could see the flexors in John’s forearm contract as he squeezed the last bit of paint out of a flattened tube. It made his heart jump. It made him pause, clothes pooled at his feet. He felt the inexplicable urge to pull them back up, fasten his belt, step back into his shoes, but then what? What was he supposed to tell John? That his forearms were too distracting? That Sherlock felt the pull to John’s bed, or sofa, like destiny, and he was afraid of what that might mean? That he was afraid it might change him, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for that? Of course, that assumed John held the same interest in Sherlock that Sherlock held in John. John hadn’t shown many signals indicating as such.

Sherlock stepped away from his trousers and pants, picked them up off the floor, folded them and set them on a couch cushion, imagined John’s jeans against his bare thighs. It gave him goosebumps.

“Is it warm enough? I can turn up the heat some more.”

Sherlock jumped, scowled over his shoulder. “Why wouldn’t it be warm enough?”

John winced. “You looked like you got a chill.”

Sherlock scoffed, turned to face the wall and methodically unbuttoned his shirt, making his hands stop shaking by sheer force of will. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

His limbs finally under his control by the final button, Sherlock whipped the shirt off his shoulders and strode for the Victorian chair. Plopped into it. Pushed the hair from his forehead. Shook it loose.

“All right?” John asked.

Sherlock propped his elbows on the arms of the chair, stared out his usual window. It was overcast. “Fine.”

John was silent. No rustle of clothes, no sweep of brush against canvas or scrape of mixing paints. He could feel John’s gaze, studying, contemplating. His heart raced, so loud that he doubted he would hear if John spoke. He’d be more likely to feel the soundwaves ruffling the hairs on his body.

He flexed and pointed his toes just to have something to concentrate on besides John. Why hadn’t he given him instructions yet? Sherlock rolled his shoulders, tipped his head from side to side, pushed his hair back from his face.

All right, this was too much. He needed some instruction already. He couldn’t sit here without something to focus on.

Just as Sherlock turned to snap about the lack of direction, John spoke. “Go back. Just a second ago. That was it.”

 _Finally._ Sherlock turned his head back towards the window and tried to remember what his body was doing just before. (God, his obsession with John was even affecting his job performance.) It took him a moment, but he got his body arranged, elbows on the armrests, a bit of slack in the shoulders so that some of his weight rested on his elbows instead of his arse, his held tilted back just a bit. He thought he might have been chewing the inside of the corner of his lip, but he wasn’t about to tear up his mouth for the sake of the pose.

Until he perfected the pose, and still John watched him with a furrowed brow like something wasn’t quite right.

Sherlock took the corner of his bottom lip gently between his teeth, and finally John started working.

It was easier now that he had a pose to do. Now that the sounds of implements scratching on canvas replaced the silence. Now that John’s concentration was on his canvas instead of just Sherlock. He felt some of the tension leave his shoulders, letting him settle into the pose.

The sounds of sketching turned to the scrape and slap of mixing paint, and Sherlock found his scalp tingling. He just knew that John’s tongue was holding onto his bottom lip, like it always did when he was focused. It always made Sherlock want to pull that lip free and replace John’s tongue with his own, and he couldn’t stand that he was missing it. Besides, he was mixing right now, not painting. What could it hurt?

So, he looked. He stared at the furrow between John’s brows. He watched John’s tongue pull at his bottom lip. He watched John’s gaze meet his, linger for a moment before gesturing with the paint knife for Sherlock to face the window again.

Sherlock complied, but John’s gaze still prickled at his temples. The sounds of mixing and then painting threatened to make him sleepy. It was killing him that John chose a pose that had Sherlock looking away. He felt the pull to John like a rubber band so strongly that he feared his body might move against the will of his mind just to be nearer to John.

Sherlock hazarded a glance at John. _How do you do this to me?_

“I need a break.” Oh, God. Had he said that out loud?

John flinched, likely surprised at the sudden sound, but he gestured for Sherlock to go ahead.

Sherlock pushed his hair back from his forehead, ran his fingers all the way back to the base of his skull, worked a nonexistent kink out of his neck. It was just for show, though. It wasn’t his body causing discomfort. Truth was, his body was comfortable. Frustratingly so. 

He settled back into the pose. “All right.”

He wished John picked a less comfortable pose. If he’d had a pain or prickle or cramp, he could have worked on discovering the source, figuring out the best ways to solve it. He could--

Oh God, John was coming over.

Sherlock watched John walk to him, guileless despite his best efforts, his body tensing for just a moment before he was able to work it back into relaxation.

John had kissed Sherlock in his mind a thousand times before he reached the chair. So, when John tucked the wooden end of a clean paintbrush behind Sherlock’s ear and tucked a curl to the shell of his ear, the fact that Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed was not only understandable; it was inevitable.

Of course, the moment after, his body went tense. His eyelids squeezed together. His fists clenched over the arms of the chair. And his heart raced for an entirely different reason. He’d let his feelings show, if only for a moment. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

A sweep of something soft down the side of his neck made him shiver, and as it touched his skin again, traced over the ridge of his clavicle, he realized. _It’s the paintbrush._

It finished its trek across Sherlock’s clavicle to draw swirls over the notch at the base of Sherlock’s throat. Goosebumps rose on Sherlock’s skin. His nipples tightened. His fingers squeezed the chair arms and then relaxed. His head fell back against the back of the chair.

_Go up. Up my neck._

John traced Sherlock’s other clavicle to the joint of his shoulder, followed the line of his trapezius up to the base of his ear. Sherlock felt like a dog, stretching his neck to allow his master better access to the best places, lifting his chin as John swept the brush under his jaw, across his neck, eliciting a chuckle from the bass of Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock heard an answering chuckle in a puff of breath from John’s nose.

And then John was back to Sherlock’s ear, flipping the curl off it, onto it, off it again. Sherlock turned his head to allow better access, to allow John to explore his apparent fascination with a single lock of hair. He’d let John keep it if he wanted to.

John painted the line of Sherlock’s jaw to his chin. Did it to the other side. Sherlock realized he could hear John’s breath--shaky, artificially slow. He was trying to keep himself under control. He was probably chastising himself even as he traced the bones of Sherlock’s face with the brush. Even as he could surely see the effect it was having on Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock had had enough of control. He could imagine nothing worse than breaking this spell and going back to professionals. He wanted to ruin their working relationship. He wanted to lose control.

He spread his legs, tilted his head back, stretched his neck, tried to convey with every inch of his body just how much he wanted this.

“John,” he spoke, though he hadn’t meant to. It sounded unlike himself. Breathless. Choked. Desperate.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, the brush drawing a slow path over Sherlock’s bottom lip.

Sherlock let out a quivering breath, and then finally, he felt skin. A finger pulled at his bottom lip before John’s lips brushed his. Soft and wet. A rough tongue. Slow as pitch.

John was taking his time, enjoying every sensation for what it was and nothing more, but Sherlock was impatient. He grabbed John’s t-shirt and pulled it towards himself until the fabric strained, and when that didn’t work to get John closer, he pulled it up John’s torso.

John let Sherlock pull it over his head, but he didn’t take it as his cue to speed up. He went back to kissing at a glacial pace, though at least now his fingers were following the path his brush sensitized. At least now Sherlock could brush his fingers over chest hair, feel the tight nubs of John’s nipples on his fingertips. He could make John jump by touching just the right part of his stomach.

John broke off to breathe against Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock finally opened his eyes to see the whorl of John’s ear, one eye lined up with his, looking back at him. He was stuck. He was lost. His head had taken a leave of absence. He was fully his body now.

“John.” 

John grabbed his chin, rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip, gaze rapt on its path.

Sherlock let his jaw fall open, chased John’s thumb with his tongue.

John took that as his cue to kiss Sherlock again, but only for a moment. Before Sherlock could fully appreciate John’s mouth, John was stepping around the chair, settling to his knees in front of it, leaning over Sherlock’s body to reach his lips again.

“God, how I’ve wanted you,” John said between kisses. His hands slid from Sherlock’s knees to settle on his hips, and Sherlock’s hips jerked forward, his bare cock grazing John’s belly, his balls brushing the hem of John’s jeans.

Sherlock swept his hands over John’s shoulders, down his back, as John moved to kiss Sherlock’s collarbone. He didn’t know what to say to that. He’d been so focused on the push and pull of his own impulses, his own feelings, that he hadn’t stopped to consider John’s. It hadn’t occurred to him that John might have kept him clothed to preserve professional distance, that he didn’t touch Sherlock for the same reason Sherlock didn’t touch John. He was afraid of where it would lead.

And where it was leading was straight down Sherlock’s stomach. His cock pulsed as he watched John worship his skin, felt his tongue swirl in the dip at the base of Sherlock’s breastbone. Sherlock gasped and found it difficult to let the breath out.

He’d imagined John would be an excellent lover, and all the imagined images flooding his mind made John’s lips on his stomach feel like a thousand.

And when John’s lips slipped over the crown of Sherlock’s cock, it felt like he left his body. His cock was so sensitive that every movement of John’s tongue had Sherlock gasping, jerking, grasping desperately at John’s shoulders, neck, hair.

“Oh, God.” Sherlock shook with the effort not to thrust into John’s mouth, teeth clenched. He was so close already—the weeks of foreplay had him on the edge the second John touched him—but he was desperate not to come yet. He wouldn’t have this end too soon.

So he tapped John’s forehead. “John.”

John took the clue and slowly slid away as Sherlock pressed his arse to the chair to keep from following John’s mouth. The moment his cock was free, Sherlock fell to the chair with a heavy rush of breath. Relief and agony.

John kissed Sherlock’s inner thigh, then the other, and Sherlock hummed. He lay back and enjoyed the slow reprieve. John worshiped his skin all the way down to his knees and back up again, and as John approached the crux of Sherlock’s thighs, this didn’t feel much like a reprieve anymore. By that time Sherlock had his legs spread as far as they could go, his arse at the very edge of the chair.

“God, you’re so wanton.” John kissed the base of Sherlock’s cock. “I love it.”

Sherlock weaved his fingers into John’s hair and tugged enough to let John know where Sherlock wanted him. “I love it, too.” _Now suck me. Please_.

John obliged, the slow movements of his tongue, the pull of his lips over Sherlock’s corona, the hand cupping his balls guiding Sherlock up the spiral until his toes were curling in the effort not to come too early.

That was until John stopped sucking Sherlock’s cock long enough to say, “I want you to come in my mouth.”

John got back to it and Sherlock was immediately at the edge, his torso stretched taut like a piano wire, his nails digging into the velvet at the top of the chair only to slip and force him further down the chair. John lost his cock for a second, and somehow it was the frantic search of John’s mouth for his cock that pushed Sherlock over the edge. It was a miracle John caught the first spurt, but then he was sucking and swallowing and working Sherlock through his orgasm like he was afraid if he didn’t suck hard enough, he’d miss some.

As he came down, he realized a piece of him was in John, and he liked that thought. Was this what John had done to him? Turned him into a sentimental idiot.

As John kissed him and he tasted himself on John’s tongue, he thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. John hummed, worked his hands down Sherlock’s biceps to his forearms down his legs to his knees. He pushed them back and forth, and Sherlock gave him a lazy smile.

John pushed off Sherlock’s knees like a spring. “Hold that pose.”

Sherlock burst into giggles as John returned with a sketchbook. He probably didn’t even need to hold it. His cock could keep it up.

“What?” John looked perplexed.

Sherlock’s giggles threatened to return, but he kept the pose. “This is what you want to do now.”

“I can’t control when inspiration strikes.” John shrugged. “We can fuck later.” He winked.

Sherlock’s grin could easily hide behind the lazy smile of his pose.”All right.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to shamelessmash for the beta!


End file.
